Ridiculous
by Sweetly Sarcastic
Summary: It was ridiculous. Her life, her situation, how she was acting. But luckily, ridiculous was right up his alley.


_**Ridiculous**_

She was being ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. She knew it, intellectually, but that didn't quell her emotions any. Or rather, she hoped she knew it intellectually, and that her emotions were only getting the better of her.

She'd thought the hard part had been buying it, and having to pick it out and then stand in line while everyone judged her for her purchase. And then she got home and thought the hard part was opening the packaging and using the damn thing. But now that unpleasant little bit was over too, and she realized that neither was nearly as excruciating as having to _wait_.

Never in her life had time moved so slowly. Not even in her third year at Hogwarts, when she'd lived each hour multiple times, did each and every damn second take this long.

The arm on the timer ticked, ticked, ticked closer to zero. The sound grated on her nerves.

"HERMIONE!"

She screamed. She hadn't meant to—she was used to people popping in at odd hours, since the Weasley family seemed to not value personal privacy at all—but she was already on the edge.

George burst into the bathroom upon her screech. She was mortified. She was fully dressed and everything, of course, but the box was on the counter and _it _was in her hand and she was frozen in horror, unable to even attempt to hide them from his widening gaze. He blushed and diverted his eyes.

"Oh, um. . . I'll just. . . go then. . ."

The timer chose that particular moment to go off with a shrill buzz that made them both jump.

"Wait, don't," she said on impulse. "Could you. . . I can't look. . ."

She tried to stand but her legs felt like jelly so she resigned to continue sitting on the loo. She weakly lifted her arms and realized that she was trembling as she gave it to him.

"Gods, 'mione," he murmured, gulping before he turned it over to look at the result.

He didn't say anything after that, just dropped to his knees and hugged her.

* * *

><p>He wasn't pleased when she told him, but then again, she hadn't expected him to be. Neither of them were expecting it. Neither of them particularly wanted <em>this<em>, at least, not now. And although neither of them would ever say it, she was almost sure she could say that neither of them wanted this _together. _

They were stuck. They'd be in a bit of a rut lately—hell, her whole _life_ had been in a bit of a rut lately—but now they were really stuck. He couldn't dump her now, but he didn't want to marry her either. She wasn't even sure he wanted to be with her at all anymore. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to be with him either.

* * *

><p>"You know, during the war, I kept thinking that after it was over, life would be great. But now I can't remember what was supposed to be so great," she told George once. It was right before she'd started working for him at WWW.<p>

They happened to be alone at the Burrow and were talking. Sometimes, she thought George could understand her better than anyone because they'd both come out of the war a little less whole. Harry and Ron had been through almost everything she had, of course, but Harry had Ginny, and Ron had Quidditch, and she, who hadn't finished school, who no longer knew how to find her parents or how to fix their memories if she did, felt incomplete and unfulfilled. She also secretly suspected that she had worried the most during the war; although Ron and Harry had felt the weight on their shoulders too, it had usually come down to her to solve the problems.

And George was sympathetic. Losing Fred seemed to have made him more pensive. "I forget, sometimes, that the war lasted longer for you than it did for me. I mean, Voldemort came back your fourth year and everything, but you lot had been involved before; at 11, you'd already tried to save the world. Bloody hell, at 11, I was still trying to torment Ron and Percy as much as possible.

"But you grew up with it. It was your life. And now that it's over, it's no wonder you don't know what to do with yourself."

He always seemed to put into words exactly what she was feeling.

He offered her the position that night. He needed help running the store, and needed help making it remind him of Fred a little less, and he figured she could use a project. And, as the position came with a key to the small flat above the apartment, he figured she could use some time on her own and away from the Burrow. And away from Molly Weasley.

* * *

><p>The first time she slept with Ron, she hadn't meant to. Or at least, she had been <em>intending<em> to, prior to actually sleeping with him. They had worked out their schedules so that he was back from Quidditch and Harry was back for Auror training so that they all had a weekend together and were staying at the flat above the shop.

Ron was supposed to sleep in her room, because she thought they could keep it clean, but it had been over a month since they'd seen each other, and so when the kissing led to something more, it was rather unplanned.

The next morning she woke up to the realization that they hadn't used any protection, at all. They hadn't been _planning_ for it to happen—he hadn't bought condoms, she hadn't been on the pill, and neither of them had learned any magical contraceptives, although she doubted they would have remembered to use them even if they had learned them. So, feeling ill, she'd gotten up and dressed herself quickly, hoping to take a morning after pill and be back before anyone woke up. It was only barely seven, and on a Saturday.

But she found that George was already awake and laying on the couch after apparently sleeping there. Gods, if he'd been there all night he probably heard everything, she knew. . .

"You're up early," she said, trying not to sound awkward.

"Couldn't sleep. The boy-who-lived could also be called the boy-who-snores. Loudly. What about you?"

"Just. . . off for a walk. . ."

But they'd lived together for months and so he knew she was lying. "You don't go on walks."

"Well, I do now," she retorted, slightly annoyed at the whole situation.

"I'll come with you." It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a statement—it was a mere fragment of his entire thought, and everything he implied. What he really meant was "I know where you're going and that you're freaked out but since neither of us wants to actually say it, going with you, if only so you don't have to go alone, will suffice."

And so she didn't argue, because everything he meant to say was true. He walked her to the pharmacy and waited while she bought the morning after pill and then walked her back and sat at the table with her while she took it with some orange juice.

"How do you feel?" He asked.

"Odd? I just took it, so it hasn't had any affect yet. But I feel odd," she told him, which was at least half the truth. She also felt very, very confused, and even though she had the feeling of confusion, she didn't know exactly what she was confused about.

She knew, at least, that she didn't want to be discussing this with _him. _He was her boss, technically, and her flatmate, and her boyfriend's brother and her friend.

* * *

><p>She realized she loved him about two months after she began sleeping with Ron. With this realization came another realization, that she did not love Ron, as much as she had been trying to believe she did. She kept sleeping with Ron, though, in a last-ditch attempt to salvage their relationship, because she didn't know what else to do, because her whole childhood had been leading up to Ron and beyond him she was at a loss.<p>

And anyway, he was still her technical boss, flatmate, boyfriend's brother, and friend: even if she and Ron broke up, she could still never be with him. It was too messy, too complicated. And that was assuming he'd even return feelings for her, which was a very liberal assumption indeed.

He had left after she told him. He returned an hour later and found her in the same place on the couch, a book in her hands though she couldn't focus enough to read.

"I can't. . . I just can't do this. I'll support you, whatever, you do, but I can't raise a child with you." He was struggling, but at least he was being honest and frank. He wasn't fighting her and she thought that perhaps she had broken him. She shouldn't have let it get that far. She knew then, definitely, that he didn't love her.

He proposed telling everyone that it was someone else's child. She knew it would paint her as a whore, but she acquiesced because she didn't know what else she could do. The cards were finally all on the table together and so she could see that he didn't love her, and she didn't love him, and that he wouldn't, couldn't, sacrifice the life he had dreamed of and all his newfound happiness for what they both knew would be a road of crushed hope.

She had never been sorry that she had let it continue as long as it had. She saw, now, though, that she had been enabling herself all along to keep her eyes shut to the world by clinging to childhood expectations of her life. She hated herself for it, and for that, she couldn't bring herself to hate him. He'd only been trying to delay breaking her heart.

* * *

><p>"So I hear Ron's not the father," George said, coming back from the Burrow after Sunday dinner. She had thought it wise not to attend and had stayed behind to mind the shop.<p>

"That's what they're saying," she said grimly, skirting around actually lying to George. George would think she was a whore. George would fire her and kick her out and hate her. He wouldn't be her boss and flatmate and friend, and certainly wasn't her boyfriend's brother any longer, and she would miss him terribly.

"Well, it's absolute shite." She looked up from where she'd been thumbing through their catalog at the counter and realized with a start that he was positively livid.

"What the hell are you doing, letting him tell everyone that he's not the father? Of course he is! And what, you're supposed to be some whore?"

She sighed. Perhaps this response was worse. "George— "

"He's being an asshole and you have every right to go to the Prophet with the truth and _you're just sitting here! _You have a _child_ to raise, Hermione. A child who deserves a mother and a father and a normal life!"

"He's not being an asshole. We agreed that we would tell everyone it wasn't his. He doesn't love me, George, and I don't love him, and a baby isn't going to change that. And yes, my child does deserve a mother and a father and a normal life, but it's going to have to be father OR normal life, not AND, and so I chose normal life. Or at least, close to normal."

"You have to understand. . . After the war, Ron needs exactly what he has right now. It's not ego, it's self-esteem; after being the least intrinsically remarkable of his brothers, and then feeling useless more often than not at the end, he needs something he can excel at, and he needs to be not feel like anyone is relying on him. It was too much; he can't handle it. He needs to be independent and by himself."

"But he can't change that about himself and I don't blame him for it. If anything, it's my fault. After the war, I clung to him because I didn't know what else to do, since everything else was over. I'd never liked anyone else. He was the only one besides Harry who knew what I had been through, and I was always too worried about Harry to love him anything but a sister. It was always Ron."

"And then it wasn't and I couldn't handle it. But now I have to. And I will."

* * *

><p>He didn't speak to her for two days after that, except to communicate essential information about the store. She got a fair number of howlers from the Weasleys, though, so she wasn't sure she exactly minded his silence.<p>

* * *

><p>She was reading on the couch when he came upstairs after closing the shop for the night.<p>

"Are you planning to do about the fact that your baby is going to be a trademark Weasley ginger?" He asked without preamble.

She was too distracted by the fact that he was speaking again to register exactly what he was saying. "Um. . ."

But he didn't give her a chance before he began to rant. "Because there's a 99% chance it's going to be a ginger, and even if both you and Ron say it isn't his, everyone will know. You could say you cheated with another Weasley, but you'd have to get one that's willing to claim Ron's idiot offspring as his own. Charlie's an option, but I don't think Fleur would much fancy her husband being the father of your baby, fond as she is of you, so Bill's out. Ditto for Penny and Percy. Then there's me, and Ron, but Ron's the reason you're in this mess."

"You could abort, but I don't think you're that kind of witch. So then you have adoption, but you'd have to adopt in the magical community or it'd be a bit of a nasty shock to the muggle family your baby ends up with. Except that in the magical community, everyone knows everyone and no one keeps secrets, which could complicate things a bit. Plus, it could be tricky, finding parents that won't farm out the baby of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, two thirds of the Golden Trio, to the media. So you're a little stuck."

She chose to ignore this problem, realistic and practical as it was, and focus on something far more important. "What do you mean "then there's you"—I can't imagine Alicia would be very pleased with me having your fake baby."

"No, I don't think she would be, but she doesn't really get an opinion on the matter, now, does she, seeing as I've broken up with her."

This was far more interesting to Hermione than her own problem. "What? When?"

"'Bout a month ago."

She felt horrible that she hadn't noticed, but the same time, slightly elated, and at the same time, horrible, again, for being slightly elated. "Oh, George, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

He shrugged and suddenly couldn't meet her eye. He never had been good with his feelings. "It's fine. It was coming, it was time."

She reached out to pat his hand but he stood up. "Anyway, um, just think about your . . . _issue_. . ."

He left without another word and she thought that at least she had found something that would shut him up. A bit dodgy, though, it was.

* * *

><p>She realized, later, that he had proposed she marry him. Of course, he had also proposed she marry Charlie, except Charlie was older and kind of not in the country. So really, he had pretty much proposed she marry him.<p>

* * *

><p>The second time they spoke about it, she was already paranoid and convinced she was showing although she was no more than 10 weeks along.<p>

And then there was "pretty much" about it—he very simply, plainly, obviously, proposed she marry him.

"Hermione, I think you should marry me," had been his exact words, actually.

She had been eating breakfast when he made that announcement and she didn't even have time to register the bits of half-masticated scrambled eggs she'd have to clean up before he sat down across from her and kept talking, seemingly unaware of her shocked expression.

"I've decided it's the only logical option. It will explain the baby's red hair—and the baby will have red hair, you know, unless the baby really _isn't_ Ron's (only joking—don't smack me, woman, only trying to help)—and nothing else will really change. We already live together, and work together, and I would have been watching out for your regardless, so nothing will really be different. We'll just be having a fake baby together. Well, a real baby with a fake story."

To Hermione, at least, that sounded vastly different.

"But. . . Ron . . . you. . . baby. . . what. . ." Hermione sat there looking rather like a guppy, her mouth bobbing open and closed with bits of uncompleted thoughts.

"And maybe it's much ado about nothing. But even without doing anything exceptionally notable lately, you've still appeared in the society section of the Prophet and in various gossip rags at least once a week. I think I'm safe to assume that this baby is going to be all over the papers. You don't want everyone getting involved."

"The media is a really crummy reason to marry someone, George. Baby or no baby."

"Well, there's also Molly Weasley."

* * *

><p>The third time he proposed she marry him, she had been having a terrible day.<p>

It was his fault, though, because the horrible day had begun the realization that her hair had somehow turned blue for the third time this week. She already knew the counter-charm but was deterred when her wand turned into a realistically slimy, disgusting snake that had managed a hiss before it became a rubber coil. She had screamed and stamped on it before realizing that it was merely yet another one from the store.

"Merlin, woman, you work and live in a _joke_ shop—you should be used to these surprises by now," George had said unsympathically when he came to investigate the source of the racket. She had said nothing in response but rather threw a shoe at his head. He'd shut the door just in time.

She had then realized that she was still only half dressed and that he had seen her clad in only a bra and half-zipped pants. She hoped perhaps he hadn't registered what she'd seen and then –

"By the way, Granger, you better decide what you want to do soon, because you're beginning to show."

_Asshole._

She didn't know if she should be more mortified that the man she loved had seen her half-dressed or that he was right, she _was _showing. It was just a little, and it was easily hidden under a carefully chosen shirt, but still, she was showing.

And then the creamer lid had fallen off as she was sweetening her coffee and made the whole thing a sickeningly sweet confection that would have made her parent's cringe. She'd thrown it down the sink reluctantly, because that was the last cup in the pot and she didn't have time to make more.

It didn't help that George seemed to be deliberately making her miserable. Everything she needed in the stock room was suddenly magically on the top shelf although she was still just as short as ever, and the step stool he'd bought for the backroom just for her had mysteriously disappeared. Her wand was accidentally swapped with a fake two more times, a weird new gooey creation oozed all over her most comfortable shoes, at lunch she mistakenly ate a canary puff, and then, to appease her, George gave her a bag of colorful toffees from Honeydukes. Except that the he'd misplaced the bag of toffees from Honeydukes and instead unwittingly gave her a bag of ton-tongue toffee.

The moment her tongue was it's regular, not three-foot size, she closed her lips tightly and merely glared at him before going back to work without another word.

Which was fine with him, because he wouldn't have been able to respond anyway, given that he was laughing his arse off.

It didn't help matters that Verity was late and left Hermione and George to work the first part of the biggest rush of the day alone. Which was why she didn't notice when Malfoy, in all his platinum-haired glory, came in and made his way up to the register

"Oh, you," was all she said as she rang up his purchases. She was too frazzled to deal with him right now, she just wanted him out of the store.

"Yes, me," he sneered. "What, am I interrupting your second lunch? Or perhaps Weasley finally broke up with you and you've been hitting the Ben and Jerry's to eat your feelings? Judging by your size now, I'd say the cold bookworm had far more feelings than anyone supposed. Then again, you are just a silly little girls, and silly little girls always have far more feelings than they should."

That had been about four insults all in one but the only one that really stuck was the first.

"What are you getting at, Malfoy?" She sighed.

"Nothing. You're just getting fat, is all."

And with that, he left his purchases on the counter and walked out of the store with a ridiculous grin on his pratty little face.

It was lucky, then, that Verity decided to finally show up just then because Hermione suddenly in tears and running up the stairs two at a time, George just a step behind her and calling after her, both abandoning the lines of customers at their registers.

George tackle-hugged her from behind in their living room and turned her around to properly hold her. "Hermione," he cooed into her hair, even as she tried to push him away.

"Hermione, love, stop it," he tried to say gently as he restrained her offending hands.

She finally quit and just sobbed into his shoulder. She felt ridiculous. Ridiculous for having had sex with Ron all those months, ridiculous for being pregnant, ridiculous for being in love with the man who was holding her now, the man who felt so good and had no idea how much it tormented her, to have him hold her like a lover but only mean it as a friend.

"Ron. . . baby. . . and I'm fat. . ." was all her managed to hear of her wet rant.

"Sh, Hermione. It's going to be okay," he promised. He was mad at her, of course, for being such a bloody idiot about just about everything lately, but she was already crying and he knew his fake wands hadn't helped at all. "And you're not fat," he added.

"I kept hoping I would figure something out but now I need to have figured something out because I'm showing and I'm fat but I still don't know what I'm going to do," she said, still crying, but the tears subsiding so that he could actually understand her.

"Hermione," he said, seriously, for once in his life, as he lifted her chin to look at him. "Marry me."

* * *

><p>She hadn't said yes. Oh course, she hadn't said no. Instead, she'd cried more and he somehow managed to carry her to bed and tuck her in before leaving her to mind the store.<p>

She felt ridiculous, still, with all this crying. It made her feel weak, and she knew she was so much stronger than she was acting but she just couldn't summon her strength—somehow, she doubted _accio strength_ would really work. And so she just felt ridiculous for everything, although she had to admit that once her crying jag was over, she did feel a bit better. It released the pent-up stress of the day, at least, and now her mind was clear to consider her situation. She decided to blame it entirely on hormones anyway.

Marrying George was actually a fairly reasonable solution. If they married before the baby was born, no one would legally be able to question the paternity of the baby without their consent. And given that Ron had been away for months and the _Prophet_ hadn't seen them together, lying and saying that they had broken up ages ago wouldn't be hard either. It's not like they'd been much of a couple before they'd broken up, anyway. In fact, the potentially most difficult part of the whole thing would be convincing people she'd gone from one brother to another; _that_, she was sure, was a scandal in itself.

She didn't like the media having a hand in her decisions, though, but she recognized that as much as she hated it in her life, she certainly wanted it to have nothing to do with her baby. Nevermind that George was right; Molly Weasley would be a force to be reckoned with.

She realized with a start, though, that all of her thoughts about what could happen revolved around the assumption that she would, indeed, keep her baby. _Well, _she thought, _at least that's a start. _

So she was keeping her baby. Right. She needn't to be logical about it, so she began by getting a piece of parchment and writing out a chart for the pros and cons of all her options.

_Have the baby alone. Acknowledge Ron as the father._

_Have the baby alone. Don't acknowledge Ron as the father. _

_Marry George. _

Her options, once on paper, seemed far more dismal and limited than she had been hoping and sank her spirit of determination a little bit.

"Right then," she muttered, and scratched the acknowledge Ron option off the list. He'd already made his feelings on that one obvious. So she could either have the baby alone or marry George. She wasn't exactly sure that she have the baby alone, though, especially given that her usual support network that was the Weasley family had stopped speaking to her. And George, after working and living together, had slowly become her best friend. It helped that he had also gotten the place of honor almost by default as Harry and Ron had fallen a bit by the wayside.

So. . . marry George? It seemed a little; then again, everything the past few months had been a bit off.

* * *

><p>She was still in bed, sleeping off and on, and still crying just a little when George came up. She guessed the store must be closed for the night, which made it about nine. Maybe eight, if he'd left Verity to close up alone once the customers were out. So probably eight, actually.<p>

He was being abnormally quiet, though. She was used to his boisterous laughter in odd, spontaneous bursts, and unexpected explosions, and loud, careless footsteps. She only knew he had come back upstairs because the floors creaked a little. She listened very carefully as he padded across the living room and opened her door slowly. He smiled when he saw her eyes were open and straightened up, less preoccupied with being quiet as he made his way across her room and straight into her bed without pausing to ask.

She adjusted to make space for him in her little bed, too exhausted to care that he was being rude. It wasn't like they hadn't been in the same bed, anyway; she'd slept in his bed one night when he had a bad fever, and he in hers once when they'd gone out together to meet friends and come home completely drunk. He'd had to carry her up, and then fell on the bed with her as he was setting her down and just decided not to try to get up.

He pulled her closer, though, and wrapped his arms around her. Once she had followed suit, it was like they were hugging, only horizontally, and all wrapped up in her covers. Her head still fit snugly under his chin, just like it did when they hugged standing up.

"Everyone will still think I'm a whore, going from one brother to another," she reminded, lifting her head slightly to look in his eyes. "Even if they are willing to believe it's not actually Ron's baby."

"Trust me," he said, and he kissed her forehead. She lay her head back down underneath his chin where it belonged and did exactly what he asked.

* * *

><p>Though he had been there the next morning, gently kicking her awake and forcing her to actually go to work, she hadn't seen him much after that. She wondered if he'd heard what she said. He must have, she knew, but then, maybe he'd chickened out. In fact, she was nearly certain, after not seeing him at all one day, that he'd realized what he'd agreed to and run away. And then he'd walked in the back door, arms full of ingredients and books and things, and she realized that she'd been silly to forget that it was stock-up day.<p>

She didn't find out what he had been up to until she was opening the store herself nearly a week later. And even then, she'd only found out because Alicia Spinnet had the come barging in angrily, wielding a copy of the _Prophet_ like it was a weapon—George hadn't even had the decency to tell her himself, she bristled.

"YOU WHORE!" Alicia began, startling Hermione, whose eyes widened with shock and outrage. "YOU DIRTY, FLITHY WHORE!" She suddenly reached out to slap Hermione, who was too stunned to duck. The stinging pain brought her to her senses. She registered Alicia reaching for her wand, obviously ready to wreak more havoc. She prepared to disarm her when suddenly, the older girl's wand flew out of her hand. And then she was being nudged out of the way while George stood in front of her protectively.

Alicia, while temporarily startled, began with a renewed vengeance. "YOU!" She shouted. "YOU LYING, CHEATING, BASTARD! How long were you sleeping with that whore, you no-good—"

"DON'T call Hermione a whore," George cut her off, his voice dangerously low and making Hermione nervous.

Alicia only sneered. "What else do you call women who get pregnant with other girl's boyfriends, Georgie? Misguided?"

"I broke up with you before anything ever happened with Hermione. You flatter yourself, thinking I needed to be with someone else to break up with you. I just didn't like you all that much—you're not the catch you think you are, sweetheart."

Hermione thought he might be going a bit overboard, but then again, the bint had just called her a whore. Three times, at that. And alright, maybe she was right—but she still didn't have to say it.

"Now I'd thank you to get out of my store and leave my fiancé alone," George said, in a tone that left no room for argument. His tone didn't matter much, though, when he had no sooner said it than he had grabbed her arm and began to pull her out of the store. He stood vigilant until she aparated away, but not without shooting him a final dirty look.

He came back in looking haggard. He felt into her in a tight hug. He kissed her forehead before he pulled away. The second time in a week, she thought to herself, and he'd called her his fiancé.

"Alright?" She asked softly, cupping his cheek with her hand and running her thumb along his jaw. He nodded into her palm. "George, I'm sorry," she whispered.

He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I should have known she'd do something crazy when she saw the article. I should have been watching out for you." He reached out and touched her still-stinging cheek. "Do you need anything for that? She didn't do anything else to you, did she?"

She shook her head. "What was she talking about, though, George? And where have you been all week?" She cringed. She was sounding like a nagging wife already.

George merely pushed Alicia's forgotten _Prophet _into her hands. "It'll explain everything, promise. I have to go, though—I only came down because I have a couple more errands to run, although I guess it's lucky I did. I'll be back for my shift at lunch."

He left without another word. She rubbed her cheek idly, wondering about him, before she remembered the _Prophet_ in her hand and began reading.

By the time he came home for lunch, she knew everything she needed to know about the story George had concocted. It was simply, what he'd done, really. He'd just put an engagement announcement in the papers and let the chips fall where they may. A very impromptu article was written in the society section about how Ron and Hermione had never really been a proper couple but merely a cover for her relationship with his brother and that Ron had agreed because he wanted to help them as he knew they were in love and all that rot. Ron had even been quoted in the article. George had done a thorough job of it. The only problem was that the wedding was set rather soon. She supposed that's how Alicia had known she was pregnant. Next Saturday was really rather soon, after all.

* * *

><p>Everything moved rather quickly after that. Mrs. Weasley busied herself planning the wedding after apologizing to Hermione profusely for all the Howlers, Hermione controlled Mrs. Weasley's planning of the wedding, George did absolutely nothing else, considering himself to have done his fair share already, and meanwhile, business at the store had picked up immensely with curious customers hoping the get a chance to talk ask in person about the relationship.<p>

By Friday, Hermione had a dress that fit her now-fat body, George had a suit, and Molly had already begun the cake, which was the only part of the wedding Hermione had not bothered to reign her in on; the cake, she figured, was far more harmless than a 200 person guest list, and she was trying to pick her battles wisely.

Hermione and George closed the store, exhausted from the wedding planning and the increased business at the store. She would have like nothing better than to spend the evening hanging out with him, reading and discussing new ideas for the store like they usually did, except that his brothers and Harry showed up just a minute after they had locked up for the night. As they stole him away for his bachelor party, Hermione couldn't help but notice that Ron was already a little drunk.

She didn't worry he would tell their secret, though, because George had already told her that he had mostly been busy getting Ron to agree to an Unbreakable Vow that he would never tell anyone the truth. Charlie, the least likely of his brothers to ever have an occasion to forget to keep his mouth shut, had been there witness. She was beginning to appreciate how truly thorough George had been about the whole thing. Although, she supposed he had time to think up a plan while she was still debating and considering and crying.

She was looking forward to a night alone and explosion-free to curl up in her armchair, a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other, when Ginny popped in and very kindly informed her that it was her hen's night.

Hermione had merely cocked an eyebrow. "Ginny, I don't really fancy hanging out with you and the girls while you all get drunk. In case you've forgotten, I'm a little bit pregnant."

Ginny waved her hand dismissively. "Details. No drinking tonight—although, of course, we may still act drunk. Now, come on."

So while George got absolutely wasted with his brothers, Hermione was forced to act absolutely wasted with the girls. She suspected, however, that some of them actually were absolutely wasted.

The put a plastic tiara on her head to hold down the bright pink toole that mimicked a veil and then threw a sash around her that read "last night of freedom." She snorted when she read it.

They took her to a club and promptly abandoned her to dance drunkenly but with much enthusiasm. After being hit on for the third time, she finally retreated to a corner to sip a Shirley Temple (which had been a pain to get—she had to convince he bartender she was pregnant before he'd consent to get her something nonalcoholic).

"Oh, Hermione, you're already pregnant—no harm in having a little fun tonight," Ginny slurred, her arm wound tightly around some random bloke. "George is probably knee-deep in slutty woman—no reason you shouldn't be."

"Sorry, Gin, but I don't fancy being knee-deep in slutty women."

Ginny scowled. "You know what I mean. Now come on and have a little fun."

But this was not Hermione's idea of fun at all. So instead she sipped her Shirley Temple and took Ginny home when it was clear that she was really very smashed.

"Hermione, you really are the best girl friend I've ever had," Ginny confided as Hermione helped her into her house. "I'm so glad that you're going to marry George. I mean, I'm annoyed you never told me, but you two just fit, you know? And I know he loves you."

Ginny's words did not have the reassuring effect she had been intending. Instead, Hermione felt a pang of regret, because she knew it wasn't true; he didn't love her, and he never would. And she would love him and be married to them but it would be empty.

She took Ginny home suddenly feeling apprehensive about the coming day. The more thought about it, the more she wasn't exactly sure that she could marry him.

It wasn't that she didn't want to. She did. She did very much, actually. But not like this. Not because he was being a gentleman and a good friend. Not because he felt obligated due to his brother's idiocy. Not if he didn't love her.

It suddenly struck her that she didn't know what would be worse: marrying him, loving him, when he didn't love her, when he would be unhappy, or not marrying him and watching some other lucky witch scoop him up and then watching them be happy together, marry, and have lots of little red-headed babies. Unhappy marriage with her, or happy marriage with someone else.

She realized with a start that she wanted him to be happy. She owed him that much. She loved him that much. Even if he couldn't be happy with her.

* * *

><p>When he finally came home, happy, loud, and utterly smashed, it was to the sobering sight of her crying on the couch, her head in her hands. He couldn't even bring himself to laugh when he noticed that she'd forgotten to remove her sash, tiara and garish veil.<p>

"Hermione," he slurred as he sank into the couch beside her. She sunk into him immediately and he wrapped his arms around her small frame. "Did someone call you fat again?" He asked hesitantly.

She only sobbed harder and shook her head no. He rubbed her back gently. "You aren't fat, Hermione. You're just pregnant. It's entirely different. You're beautiful."

Gods, how she wanted this. Wanted him to hold her when she was being ridiculous and crying. Wanted him to call her beautiful as he reassured her. But it wasn't right. In fact, it was all wrong. He couldn't possibly know how he was doing everything wrong by doing everything right. How desperately she wished he loved her. If he did, he could do everything right by doing everything wrong. Instead, he was wonderful and that was killing her.

She forced her tears to subside, taking deep, steady breaths and then finally lifted her head from her hands.

"George, I can't marry you," she whispered.

She felt all the muscles of his body, which was so perfectly wrapped around her own, freeze. "What?" He finally whispered.

She began to cry again and she hated herself for being so weak when she was trying so hard to be strong for him, strong for them. "George, I can't marry you. I know you think you've thought this out, and you did a lot of work, but did you ever think about how you'll feel in a year, five years, ten years, shackled to a woman you don't love with a child that isn't yours? And even if you don't love Alicia, there's still other witches out there, other witches you could love, other witches you could be happy with instead. I can't ask you to sacrifice your happiness. I won't let you."

He was looking at her with a shocked, slack-jawed expression on his face. "I won't regret being married to you," he finally said.

"Well I would regret being married to you!" She nearly shouted, frustrated. "I love you, George. I can't marry with you, not like this. Not when I know you don't love me back. And I can't expect you to love me back. But I love you and I want you to be happy, even if it has to be with someone else."

"Merlin, you ridiculous witch." His body relaxed but he held her tighter and suddenly he was kissing her. "It will never be with someone else," he promised, whispering in her ear. "Gods, Hermione, it was always you. It will always be you. I can't promise I won't accidentally swap your wand with a fake, or that your hair will always stay its normal color, or that your tongue won't occasionally grow several feet, but I can promise that I'll always comfort you when someone calls you fat or you just feel emotional, and defend you when you're called a whore, and love you, forever, if you'll have me."

She forgot to cry. She forgot to breathe. She forgot she was pregnant and that they were getting married and that she was in a bit of a mess and that Malfoy had called her fat and Alicia had called her a whore. All she knew was that George loved her, and that his lips were on her own, feeling better than she could have imagined.

* * *

><p>The fourth time George proposed to her, they were making out on the couch in their living room like a couple of wanton teenagers. He had pulled away suddenly, and she thought he had merely come to his senses about the whole thing. Him loving her was too good to be true.<p>

"Hermione," he breathed, his forehead against hers. "Marry me tomorrow. Marry me tomorrow, not because of the baby and the complicated situation. Marry me tomorrow because you love me and I love you, absolutely, forever. Even when you're fat and have blue hair."

* * *

><p>The fourth time George proposed to her, she finally said yes outright.<p>

* * *

><p>"Do you think we could name it Fred if it's a boy?" He asked her late one night, many months later, his hand caressing her belly as she fell asleep. She would have laughed if she had been any less drowsy. It was really rather ridiculous—she was married to one Weasley, having the baby of a second Weasley, and naming that baby after a third.<p>

She smiled and snuggled closer to him. "I wouldn't have it any other way."


End file.
